


when that day comes, you two can be monsters together.

by amazingjemma, leopoldjamesfitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bobbi as Captain America, Everything Hurts, F/M, Fitz as Winter Soldier, Hunter as Hawkeye, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Jemma as Black Widow, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, RP, Red Room (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 20:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11905629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/pseuds/amazingjemma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopoldjamesfitz/pseuds/leopoldjamesfitz
Summary: Perhaps, this is the freedom they got in the end. The freedom they, monsters, deserve. Eventually, they are together anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my girl Kris who agreed to be my RP partner. This is my first RP thread in English, so any mistakes/typos/whatever belong to me and only. 
> 
> Jemma: amazingjemma  
> Fitz: leopoldjamesiftz

_ She doesn’t really understand what she’s doing - it’s more like an instinct or even a reflex embedded in her brain. So when her target’s hand touches her shoulder, Jemma doesn’t think - she acts like she was taught. In the blink of an eye she grabs a hidden knife underneath her clothes, aiming straight at the man’s skull. The sound is not the most pleasant one, but the deep red colour on her hands is rather satisfying. She goes for another attack, this time it’s his heart and when he chokes on his own blood, the Widow smirks, watching the light fading away in his grey-ish eyes. Only then she straightens up and walks past the full-length mirror, something in her brain clicks and deep red colour doesn’t seem so satisfying anymore - she wants to tear apart her blood-stained dress; the blood is everywhere - oh her cheeks, forehead, lips, collarbones. _

 

Jemma wakes up with a gasp, her limbs tangled in the sheets of her not really cozy bed, breathing heavily at the dream or rather, a memory. It’s been only five hours since she came back from her second mission, and everytime she closed her eyes she saw him - her target, a pudgy man with a devilish scowl and grabby hands. She doesn’t remember his name or who he was - this part of the memory was successfully wiped, just like the blood all over her body.

 

She attempts to control her breathing, to calm down her violently beating heart and at least try to remember that she doesn’t wear a coat of blood on her skin anymore. Everytime she looks at herself in the mirror she doesn’t recognize herself; there’s no light in her previously bright hazel eyes, nor there’s a smile on her lips she had before, when she just started training. It all started so innocent - simple ballet pas, something what she excelled at, being on top of every other girl. The training was hard, but bruises and fractures were worth of the results. Or at least, Jemma tried to convince herself they were.

 

Jemma blames those who made her like this - but most importantly she blames herself and have doubts about her personality. The first murder was nothing - simple poisoning, without blood and cracking skulls; without haste attempt of washing away the blood from her shaking body and vomiting after seeing what she has done. The superiors say nothing but look at her with a smile of a jackal, telling her she did good. She tries to find her only anchor in the crowd of evil faces, someone she trusts but the blue-eyed man isn’t there and disappointed, she goes to her room, flashes of the mission blinding her brain.

 

Taking the last calming breath, the girl sits up against the headboard of her bed and blinks to wipe away terrifying pictures in front of her eyes. She buries her face in her shaking hands thinking what she’s going to do now. She thought of escaping this place - but could she really fight those tough and furious soldiers that securing the whole building? Could she tell her teachers that she doesn’t want to be their puppet? These questions cause a severe headache and Jemma sinks down, thinking of the terrors she had made and will have to make. 

 

Jemma buries her face in the pillow and wants to scream till she loses her voice, till someone comes and just  _ make her  _ to shut up. Anything to get rid of the monsters in her head. Because this is what she is. She always knew, somehow, that there was something dark living deep inside her, but only in the Red Room she could finally meet her dark and bloodthirsty alter ego. At the back of her mind Jemma tries to remember something -  _ anything _ \- from her past life, and it only causes more headache. All she can hear is white noise, a procedure she has to go through two times a week.

 

No matter how she tries, the bloody scene keeps appearing right in front of her eyes, and at some point Jemma can feel lingering and warm blood all over her body. She curls up in her too cold and too empty bed and squeezes her eyes shut, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She can’t cry. She is strong. She is brave. She is one of 28 Black Widows with the Red Room. Though something makes her open her eyes -  _ someone -  _ standing at the doorway of her dark room, watching her. She is both relieved and terrified, so Jemma stays in a curled up position, waiting for the storm, and when she hears the ruffle of white sheets and a warm hand on her shoulder, she bites her shaking lip and sniffs, allowing hot tears flood her side of the pillow.

 

He is not the first. He knows that, he’s  _ accepted  _ that. The Soldier knows that there was another before him; a man with charcoal eyes who looked at him with almost  _ pity _ when he came in, younger than The Soldier can remember now and was placed in the waiting chair. The Soldier does not remember much from those days, but he knows the reason behind that as well.

 

“She’s doing well,” a man, whom The Soldier does not know by name, but can place some kind of familiarity in his look, says to him, as if it makes any difference. They have just over two dozen women just like her, but the men are  _ impressed _ by her. The Widow they have been eyeing is young, too young to be at this - but then again, The Soldier had just been scraping sixteen himself when the men had found him and decided to use him. “But the nightmares are an issue.”

 

The Soldier has nightmares, too. But they’re infrequent. The men made sure of that, ensured that his screams couldn’t be heard by the Widows or the other Soldiers they are trying to keep in his place. This does not unsettle The Soldier anymore, because he has lived this life longer than he can remember. He does not know how long he has lived like this, but he does have suspicions that they do.

 

It seems, almost sporadically, they decide re-inventing is necessary and he meets with the chair sometimes when he says the wrong thing. So The Soldier does not talk often; the chair and he are not very good friends. The Soldier closes his eyes and almost seems a glimpse of something, but it’s too hazy and he sighs out his frustration as he runs his hand over his hair. 

 

“Nightmares.” The Soldier says after a moment, realizing the man is waiting for a response. He’s not sure what to offer to him; not sure why they picked her out of nearly thirty girls to be the one he stands by. The other girls do not have someone like him watching their every move. The Soldier cannot figure out if he is there to frighten her, or to make her safe, and realizes that it probably does not matter to her. She was ripped from her home and her identity in a matter of speaking. She is a prisoner here. She is like The Soldier in that way. “Bad?”

 

The man nods, although his eyes narrow at The Soldier, but he does not say anything incriminating. Instead, he furrows his eyebrows and sighs. The Soldier watches as they unbunch on his forehead and dissipate into their normal stature, wondering if he should be paying this much attention to the man. The Soldier tries to be obedient and not overstep lines. The men have told him he needs to do that. But The Soldier was only ever taught how to kill with both hands, not taught how to make friends. Friends are unnecessary. 

 

“Some of the worst we’ve seen,” the man says casually, but he’s already turning his back on The Soldier and there is almost a reminder that The Soldier could easily cripple this man because that was what he was trained to do, this is who he is, but The Soldier does not want to know what the consequences of that might taste like. “But she is doing good, and I’m happy enough with her progress.”

 

The Soldier nods succinctly. “I will be with her next time.” The phrase is meant to be a question, considering it is by his own assumption that they eventually want them to be working together. The Widow he is assigned to also has a name, but he is very bad with names. The Widow works in his head. But The Widow is his, she is his responsibility. If she does bad, she is expected, almost, to answer to him first. The man twists and looks over his shoulder at The Soldier. There is fear in his eyes, The Soldier recognizes. 

 

“We can discuss that.” The man almost stutters, but catches himself before dissolving into them. “I will discuss that with your superiors.”

 

The Soldier nods, because arguing is forbidden from him. He is supposed to be complacent. “I will see her now.” He says, leaving no room for discussion as he exits the room. The men might not be happy with him later, but The Soldier will deal with that then. He has been told, almost multiple times, that checking in on The Widow is important. She needs to know that what she is doing is for the greater good. She is doing good things. She needs to feel pride.

 

The Soldier does not know how to convey pride the way they describe it, which goes without saying.

 

She is in her room when he finds her, which is good. The Soldier likes when things are in order, and it is more than fine that The Widow is obeying rules instead of breaking them. She did not do well with that when she first came here, so he is happy that she is at the very least obeying this one time. He does not feel like teaching her a different way today, or potentially disciplining her on their behalf.

 

They do not touch this Widow often, they want him to do it. He thinks they might be testing his loyalty, but he has not asked. 

 

She is facing the doorway, and even before he approaches the bed she is curled up on, he can see the wet patch on her pillowcase. Tears. The Soldier has not cried for a very long time, but she is still new. She will learn to forget what crying is like, too. 

 

“Little one,” he speaks in a rough tone, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. The men do not approve of him being careful and gentle with her, and he has no doubt that they are listening in, so he keeps his voice low. They have eyes and ears everywhere. “You did well.”

 

He does not know if this is true or false; it does not matter. She requires reassurance now, and they can deal with any imperfections later when the full report has been handed to him. He expects it soon, mostly blacked out from information he is not privileged to, but they will not dare to interrupt him in front of The Widow. He is not sure why, but they seem to want her to trust him. He suspects it's for ulterior motives.

 

“They are singing your praises,” he adds for no other reason than to give her some amount of comfort. In the aftermath of a nightmare, he does not know what state she is in, so he reluctantly removes his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed as he watches her with careful consideration. “You have done well, better than most.” He tells her honestly, still quietly, carefully. He knows how to stand around a bomb and not get blown, but she does not. “I am proud,” he adds after another moment, feeling as though she needs that.

 

As soon as he starts speaking, the Widow looks up, allowing herself to keep the eye contact as The Soldier speaks. Jemma doesn’t want to make him angry nor hear yet another lecture about her bad behavior. It won’t end up well. She doesn’t hear his voice that often, because even on their trainings he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s mostly monosyllables and short orders.

Jemma was assigned to him a couple of months after she arrived to this place, to have personal trainings with the best asset they have. He is tough and strict, but the Widow thinks it’s for the best. She follows his commands and instructions and doesn’t get punished that often. She is not sure if the other girls have someone like him. Jemma likes to believe she got lucky having someone by her side, even if it’s the nameless Soldier.

 

His ridiculous nickname for her make the Widow smile a little, but when he mentions her mission, Jemma feels another wave of tears forming in her eyes, so she squeezes them shot and shakes her head violently, the memory of bloody corpse flooding her brain again, like a spreading virus. She might as well ask him if he can do anything to wipe her memories, to do this cruel and painful procedure she really hates, only for the sake of peaceful nights and fresh mind. She keeps listening to his voice and what he’s saying both make her upset and happy.

 

It’s only when he removes his hand, Jemma opens her eyes and notices his blue eyes piercing her, and it sends a pleasant shiver down her spine. Apart from others, she trusts him, perhaps even more than herself at this point. They work together, forming an unstoppable force and Jemma wonders if he had someone like her before. He knows what to say and what to do and when the Soldier says he’s proud, Jemma somehow relaxes and finally takes a deep breath.

 

She wonders if he says that because that’s a part of her program, but the honesty in his blue eyes is too clear to think any differently.

 

“Does it get easier?” She asks with a shaky voice, watching the Soldier carefully. “To cross someone off? I can’t… can’t sleep. Or eat. When I close my eyes, I see so much blood and it’s… it’s too much.”

 

The Widow’s room has too many cameras and wiretaps, so she doesn’t allow herself to raise a voice or even take his hand or touch him (even though she  _ wants _ ; her hand aches to hold his hand; she misses his warmth and unusual affection). Without getting up, she examines the corners of her room, each of them has eyes and ears. Then she returns her attention to the Soldier beside her, watching him repeating the same move she just did.

 

 “I don’t want them to watch me”, she informs him through gritted teeth. Jemma knows he can’t do anything about it, but perhaps his voice would matter someday. “I can feel their eyes on me. Especially the charcoal ones.” She doesn’t say that, but she can’t sleep at night not just because of the bloody missions. Sometimes she doesn’t move it all, staring back at those cameras, hoping men behind them will go and she can finally have some peace.

 

The young Widow doesn’t understand why other girls are so scared of the Soldier. He is quiet and understanding, sometimes rigorous and demanding of course, but not scary.

 

Sometimes he allows his Widow to watch the training process of other girls and what Jemma sees scares her to death and make nearly clutch to her Soldier. One mistake, one wrong word or move – and other girls are get beaten up or, what is worse – brainwashed all over again. She had learnt not to do that, so their trainings are mostly silent and productive. His praisings make her try harder, better, faster. He is the best teacher young Window could dreamed of.

 

“What else do they say?” She’s curious, of course, eager to please everyone, not just the Soldier. The glory of the soviet supremacy blinds her, but she wants to be better than other girls. The Soldier’s presence makes her remember why she is here in the first place. She evens her breathing and sits up slowly, watching blue-eyed man, searching for the answers in his eyes. “Have you got the full report yet?”

 

His silence is everything she needs. Nodding her head at his obvious answer, Jemma looks down at her hands, biting her lower lip. She thinks that maybe he’ll be glad to hear all the information he needs from her personally. “His name was Mikhail Kononov. The man with charcoal eyes said he was the threat for us. He was hard to… kill. But I did it.”

 

She can’t say much, or rather – she doesn’t want to. He’ll read the full report anyway. The threat’s eliminated and that’s what matters the most.

 

Despite Jemma’s steady hands her voice is still slightly shaky but she tries to hide it. Taking a deep breath, the Widow looks up at the man with her eyes full of terror and gasps quietly. “What if I fail? What if someday they want to get rid of me because I couldn’t do what they wanted me to?”

 

 Jemma can’t really imagine what kind of tortures they have. She had gone only through one yet, but when her S.O. allows her wander around the base – _the underground base, as it seems so_ – she finds more rooms with terrifying boards on the door. All of them are unnecessary cruel, for sure, and Jemma hopes she will never know what’s going on behind these doors where she can hear older Widows screaming and crying.

 

She hopes the Soldier will protect her from it.

 

 

He is pleased when she meets his eye – none of this is easy for her, and he understands this the most. There was once when another man, another Soldier, did the same to him. This man was timid, and he thinks that he might be dead now, or just as good as that, but everything The Soldier knows now came from this man. He is grateful, and hopes that one day The Widow feels the same kind of graciousness he feels for that man toward him.

 

Of course, it does not matter if she does or not – because as long as she is ready for the program, The Soldier’s debts are paid and he does not have to worry about her anymore. He thinks the men might want them to work together for a long time, but he is not sure if they will still go through that plan. The one’s they intend to implement, even on a larger scale, are usually the ones that are shared with him. As of late, the only thing that he has been told has been that he would be training her. And at that, there hadn’t been much of a requirements table given to him either.

 

Her questions make his head hurt, not because of overthinking but because of how honest they are. She wants to know the reality, wants to know everything that there is to know about these conditions that they exist within. For a long moment, The Soldier contemplates lying to her. He is not supposed to do that, he is supposed to be very honest, very succinct. He is also not supposed to unsettle her, of which he has done more than once. “No.” He tells her quietly, because it is the truth. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes all he can see is the face of every person he has ever injured. He remembers them all. The chair does not help that. “You get used to it. This... it becomes you. You do not have to worry, little one, you will feel like it is normal one day, and peace will come.”

 

Peace, The Soldier thinks, is a bad word for it. Because he does not know peace, He knows the sound of screaming in his head, he knows how comfortable it feels when it occurs, knows that there is quiet when he cans hut that all off, but peace is an illusion. He does not tell her a lie, but a half truth is all The Widow needs today.

 

The Widow mentions the man with the charcoal eyes and he almost freezes, but catches himself last minute. The Soldier does not fear this man, for fear is a weakness, but the man unsettles him. He is the head of the Widow program, and the most callous of the men who are here. The watching does not go away, he has realized, and she will realize that one day too. “You will get used to it, little one.” He whispers, in a quiet tone that almost sounds reassuring. “They will not stop, but one day it will feel like their eyes are not on you. I promise.”

 

There are no half-truths in that statement, but he thinks there might be a hidden clause somewhere. The Soldier knows they are being watched now; he does not need explanation on this. They are always being watched, but especially when they are alone. The men want to know they are not conspiring against them, and The Soldier thinks they are wise to not trust them enough to think they would not do that.

 

The Soldier has been loyal for as long as he can remember, but The Widow does not know what loyalty is yet. She is still young; she is still training.

 

“They do not disclose such information with me.” He tells her honestly, because she cannot be thinking about praise as the most important aspect; she needs to know that often she will not receive this. She will receive nothing. She needs to still complete the job despite this. Perhaps he has been too soft on her, and he blames that on himself. The men will be disappointed in him. “Praise isn’t important, little one; it is not.”

 

The Soldier has not been interrupted yet by another man, so he shakes his head no as a quiet response to her question; the report will likely been given to him in the morning, or potentially be on his bed when he returns, laced with a sedative to ensure that they can retrieve it once he is done. The Soldier knows their tricks now, but given he is expected to read through it, he cannot fight that. He knows what survival tastes like.

 

“If he told you he was a threat; he was a threat.” The Soldier says this a little bit louder, not to frighten her, but to appease the men who might be listening in on their conversation. It is important that they know his compliance, and him teaching that onto her. The man’s name does not matter, either. “Do not memorize your victims, sweet one, because they do not matter. They are bad people who would hurt us, too, given half a chance. We are just taking that chance from them.”

 

The Soldier thinks he must have memorized everything they have ever told him before, and was now spitting it back out at her, but it hardly makes a difference. She needs to know that he is proud of her, yes, and the pride should help her strive to be the best she can be, but she also needs to know to disassociate herself from the situation altogether. It is important. “We are doing good work.” He says, for no other reason than to convince himself of that fact as well.

 

There is terror in her eyes the next time theirs meet. The Soldier thinks of how foolish it is for her to still feel fear, but he does not tell her that. Unlearning fear is difficult, and it’s something that he still feels in his bones from time to time. She will take her time, but she will learn. He has confidence in her. Much more than she has in herself, he thinks. “You get a chance to prove yourself to them, as you have to me.” He tells her quietly, eyes narrowing as he pushes closer to her. He is not sure where the cameras are in her room, but if they are similar to his own, he wants to ensure that they cannot so much as read his lips now. “They are afraid of you, little one, and that is what will keep you alive.”

 

Fear, he thinks, is such a powerful motive. Men have started wars using it, have created entire civilisations that now exist underneath their feet with it. Fear will keep her alive, as it has done with him, but it cannot be her fear guiding her along the way. It has to be theirs.

 

Keeping his head close to hers, he holds her gaze as long as she will allow it. He does not reach to steady her shaking hands, though he thinks that might help calm her, but he can see the storm brewing in her eyes. It’s the same kind that they want to kill, the fight against being this person is important, but it has to be washed out before they wash it out for her. They have done that to The Soldier more than once. He is grateful.

 

“You are safe here.” He tells her quietly, slowly drifting away and straightening his back once more. “I will not let them touch you.”

 

 

Getting used to, Jemma thinks, is not that bad. Everything takes time, and so is living here and being trained and turned into something what other people call ‘weapon’. Because this is how she feels now – she can be a monster, but she is also a weapon against those who may hurt people Jemma cares about it. This feeling is temporary, but it’s strong enough to make the Widow remember why she is here. She can’t wait for this feeling to become an integral part of her personality, her life. The choice of Soldier’s words make Jemma furrow her eyebrows; how killing can be normal? How can the aftermath be considered as peace? Jemma wants to refuse and start to argue but opts against it – arguing with The Soldier is almost like a suicide. The Widow doesn’t want to upset him and yet again show him how rebellious she is.

 

The Widow’s eyes once again find a little camera in the right corner of her room whilst she’s listening to The Soldier. Their eyes on her are unravelling, but having a blue-eyed man by her side calms her down; he’s stronger than them. Jemma thinks that they -  _ whoever watching her _ – are making sure The Widow and The Soldier do not cross the line. It’s tempting, of course, especially considering how gentle The Soldier’s hands can be and how smooth and calming his voice is, but Jemma is not stupid. She had heard older Widows discussing it –  _ the intimacy  _ – and Jemma is not sure if she can handle separation from her S.O. if the aforementioned intimacy eventually happens.

 

Even if the praise is not important, young Widow wants others to know that she’s more than they think. She wants to prove them that she’s tough and feral, capable of  _ more. _ She knows The Soldier is aware of her talents, for he is the one who has been training her and she would like to believe she is the best he ever had.

 

Lowering her head, Jemma bites her lip and then looks up, so the cameras won’t be able to see her face. “I want  _ you _ to be proud of me”, she whispers honestly, eager to capture the change in his facial expression.

For some reason, his opinion matters the most to her. It’s a strange feeling – never wanting to be without someone, who genuinely tries to make her better, to teach her things which will help her in the future. It’s not love or obsession – it’s a pure trust in someone who never hurts her.

 

The Soldier is as wise as always, and his morality helps Jemma feel a little better about what she’s done. She still hopes it gets easier, or at least she’ll stop having such vivid nightmares, even though she assumes The Soldier still having them himself. She feels sorry for him, a feeling that should be immediately wiped away and forgotten, but The Widow’s still working on it. She will be better.

 

He says that they are afraid of her – those big and terrifying people – and something shifts deep inside. It means she’s doing good, if even the superiors are scared of her. Let them be scared. She will not let them underestimate her; she will prove she can do even better.

 

Shaking her head, The Widow meets The Soldier’s blue eyes and smirks. “We won’t let them. They have no idea what I am capable of.”

 

After their meeting, Black Widow feels better. Stronger, even. She doesn’t even notice cameras anymore and straightens up in her bed, noticing a plate of her dinner she refused to eat. Perhaps now Jemma can finally fulfill her appetite. When The Soldier moves, she panics as she watches him leaving. Right before he disappears behind the door, she grasps his hand, making him turn around. Breathing heavily, she manages a crooked smile before whispering a genuine “thank you”.

The Soldier does not understand The Widow’s need for acceptance, but perhaps he is not meant to. Perhaps she is supposed to be young and a little wild and he is supposed to tame that. One day, The Widow will kill on her own and not look behind her for praise, and that day has to come soon, if only for her safety. The men do not tolerate belligerence.

 

The men do not tolerate him sneaking into her room late at night, because he should have been waiting when she came back and not had to do this, but he will deal with that later. He trusts the widow, though he does not know why.

The Widow is the scariest person these men have seen in decades, and at 5’3 and 112 pounds, that is an incredible feat. She does not understand that these men want her on her side, simply because she is lethal. They know how to make good enemies and they will take every piece of her they can. The Widow needs to learn to cooperate. She is good, she is wise, but she needs to be better than that.

“You are in control, little one.” He tells her quietly, moving to stand up and push away from her. The Soldier thinks that he might find someone lurching outside his door, someone that might want to discuss this meeting with them. The Soldier knows better to lie, or to keep his mouth shut, because he is explicitly forbidden from both. “Show them that you know that, and they will never underestimate it.”

The Soldier turns to leave, because it is time to go before he gets her in trouble too, but the Widow grasps his hand tightly and he ignores the electric feel that comes along with it. The Soldier calls it the wind. When The Widow thanks him, he is speechless. He does not deserve praise, or thanks, but she gives it to him anyway.

For a long moment, he is unsure of what to say to her.

“Eat, little one,” he whispers, slowly retracting his hand from hers. They cannot be seen touching for too long, that is forbidden. He knows this. She does too. “We will see each other, bright and early.”

The Soldier does not say it, but her thanks is on his mind the entire way back to his bunk, and it keeps him up long past that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Present days.

Casually sipping her tea, Jemma was watching the screen where an achingly familiar person was tied to the most uncomfortable chair  _ (she knows it is; she was in this chair herself and luckily for her, it ended up pretty well _ ). It’s been _ years _ since she last saw him and her cold and rotten heart sank at this sight of him. He looks exhausted, with more stubble on his face; his eyes were as blue as she remembers – blue enough to drown in them – but full of rage and darkness.

 

( _ The Widow remembers his eyes being empty and emotionless, but now they are filled with something she didn’t expect to see. Was that really him?) _

 

He looks like a completely different person but even tied up and glaring at her new friend with fire in his eyes, Jemma still recognizes his old self. Because well, she’s been searching for so long and she just  _ can’t _ be wrong. She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, flashes of their last time together making her heart stop for a minute. She still remembers the first three days praying to God to return her Soldier; the one who could understand her without words and be an anchor she needed the most. Her prayers were never heard, so she promised to find him when the bad men would stop hunting her down. Opening her eyes, Jemma lets out a huff, because she did it. She found her Soldier.

 

But now  _ she  _ was with these  _ bad _ men and the Widow wasn’t entirely sure the Soldier will forgive her. Jemma hoped she could convince him to stay, to prevail there’s nothing dangerous to be with Shield. For so many years she was also convinced Shield was just another branch of Hydra – more secretive and powerful, ruling from the shadows. So when another agent took her in, she made an ultimatum; either they kill her or she kills them. Neither was the right choice, of course, but after so much pain and suffering, she didn’t see another option. Lance Hunter –  _ Hawkeye _ – vouched for her, taking the infamous Black Widow under his wing. But even being with Shield, she didn’t really forget her Soldier, keeping her memories awake in her hardest moments.

 

A loud bang on the door brings her back to reality and she turns around to see Lance Hunter moving towards her way with a frowning face.

 

“God, does he even have a tongue?” He grumbles, falling into a chair next to Jemma. She lets out a laugh and puts a cup next to the gun Hunter gave her in her early years at Shield. “Couldn’t even say his name, that bastard.”

 

“Hey”, Jemma immediately straightens her posture and scolds Lance who raises his hands in surrender. “Be nice, he’s our guest. And I’m not surprised he didn’t tell you anything.”

 

“Gonna beat answers out of him?” Hunter chuckles, and Jemma rolls her eyes. “Not gonna lie, spider, he’s hell of a work.”

 

Jemma doesn’t say anything, just smiles with a corner of her mouth and returns her attention to the screen. She knows what he’s capable of – after all, he taught her how to be deadly. She hopes he will remember her because well – Jemma believes you can’t really forget a person who was your everything; you can’t forget someone you were  _ that  _ close with; she hopes for him to recognize her so they could finally be together; she hopes she will be able to make him stay.

 

Gathering the folder with information on the Winter Soldier, Jemma takes a deep breath and turns around, but Hunter grabs her hand and she whirls around with a confused look.

 

“Be careful, Jem.”

 

Nodding her head, the Widow rushes to the Vault where they keep her Soldier. The long-awaited meeting makes her knees weak and for the first time in her life, she thinks that he may not recognize her. She frets that Hydra made sure of that, wiped the memory of her from his brain and she will not be able to see the man she cared about. So before she opens the bulletproof door, Jemma takes a deep breath.

 

As soon as she meets his eyes, she stops dead in her track and forgets the world exists. It’s not the same eyes she fell in love with, but they are brighter, bigger, keeping too much emotions and all the Widow wants is to hold him in her arms, to feel the only warmth she had found while being in the Red Room. Jemma doesn’t rush with the greetings – she wants to study him a little bit more, to make sure it’s really  _ him. _

 

The mist and euphoria disappears with a horrible crash when The Soldier twitches and Jemma blinks, nearly dropping the folder she’s holding. Biting her lower lip, she takes a few steps forward and smiles softly.

 

“Hello”, she watches him, his reaction to her voice, waiting for the recognition on his face. “I’m sorry about this”, she waves her hand at the handcuffs his both hands are attached to, “I was in this chair too, so there’s actually a way out of it.” She hopes to lighten up the atmosphere with a joke but he does not seem impressed. She notices he furrows eyebrows, as if trying to remember something and Jemma hopes she managed to unleash his memories of their shared past.

 

The Widow sits down in the chair in front of him, closer than she should and stares in his impossibly blue eyes with  _ so _ much pain, she wants to tear apart those, who did this to him. “What do you remember? Anything? We…  _ I _ want to help you, so please, say something”. Jemma doesn’t care how pathetic she might look but she wants to hear his voice.

 

The Soldier remembers…

Peace and quiet.

He was hiding? Maybe.

And then he remembers…

Guns, shouting, people shouting at him, people looking at his arm in fear and men surrounding him.

He remembers through a crowd of men in black gear, there were women watching him, a blonde and a brunette, looking at him like he might as well have been the one to take down Paris.

He wasn’t, was he? No. He was in Bucharest. He is happy here.

The Soldier does not understand why these people want to take him from his home, because he knows from the first sight of them that they are not the men who he escaped from. He does not know who they are, and perhaps that is the most fearful part of being held captive. They did not introduce themselves, but given that he could have likely taken down the entire congregation of people there, he does not blame them.

He is in a padded room, and is tired. He wants to sleep, but every time he closes his eyes, he wakes mere moments later in a sweat. The Soldier does not remember his dreams very well, for they are more nightmares than dreams, but he hopes that…

The Soldier crushes his hope in his head. Hope is pitiful, it is unnecessary. It is a feeling that arises when men like him are not controlled. The Soldier is in control of himself.

Men come in and out, hoping to speak with The Soldier. They ask him if he knows his name and the Soldier does not. The only name he has ever needed is The Soldier. He does not tell them that is his name, because that is what they refer to him as. It seems silly for The Soldier to tell them that his name is, in fact, The Soldier, when they have already adopted that idea already.

He knows from past experience that correcting men like this is dangerous, so he does not do it.

There is a man who spends a particularly long period of time with him. He is British, he thinks, and crass. This man introduces himself as  _ Hawkeye _ , like that means something to The Soldier. The Soldier searches through the database he has formed in his mind and does not find that name to be pertinent. There is something about this man’s face that infuriates him, though, so he does not look at him.

The Soldier does not speak when he is spoken to, and he thinks that if this were Hydra, they would have him in the chair. They would make him speak, if only to hear him scream. The Soldier tenses visibly at that idea, fingers digging into the arms of the chair he is strapped to. The one strap is a different material than the other, and arguably it was the first thing he noticed when he broke out of it. It is made of a metal stronger than his arm, which is weird.

His arm is very strong.

And then the man eventually leaves The Soldier alone. There is no clock in here, so The Soldier does not know what time it is, and he thinks about maybe raising his voice to ask it, but it does not matter. The Soldier knows what he has done, knows that the men from Hydra would kill him if he spilled any information anyway. He is not at peace from dying, but at peace from being free. He suspects these men will kill him once they have their answers.

Just when The Soldier thinks he is free for the day, the door opens again. The brunette from earlier peels in, and he almost expects the blonde to come too. He is glad when she does not. The pitying looks they had gave The Soldier had been almost crippling. He does not know either of these women, so he is not sure why they feel pity for him.

Except, the closer the brunette gets, the more his brain begins to work. He is not sure why at first, because it never reacts this way to anyone. Not even to himself. The woman begins to speak, her voice soft and honeyed and The Soldier begins to think that he has heard it before. Maybe earlier? When they captured him?

It's like a memory in the back of his mind that deletes as he brings it up, so he does not push it. Instead, he crumbles in on himself. The Soldier hopes that this woman will give up on him, too, and leave him. He is happy to stay in this cell for as long as they need him to. He does not expect to leave alive.

But the Woman does not move away, instead sitting closer than anyone else has. She is carrying a gun, he notices, but he suspects it is either filled with blanks or empty. The men here all carry this different design of a gun, it makes his mind work eagerly too, but The Soldier does not know what to do with this kind of information as it filters through his mind.

“You are not going to ask me my name?” He asks, voice low and gravelly. Every person who has come in has referred to him as ‘The Soldier’ or ‘The Winter Soldier’ – he hates the latter name, because Winter is his least favorite month, it reminds him of cold nights and snuggling blonde hair to keep warm and the kiss she gave his cheek before he departed for war.

The Soldier tenses. Where did that come from? He does not know. He buries that thought deep, it makes him happy.

The woman is so close now, all he can smell is her perfume and there’s something else that comes to him almost instantly, like pushing through the clouds and all he can remember is lavender and vanilla and the way it seemed to engulf him each time he was around. With another sharp shake of his head, The Soldier relents his thought process. These thoughts are altered by the training, by the men, by Hydra. They are not real.

The Soldier presses his lips together into a thin line. “Are you going to kill me?” He asks lowly, unsure of why he’d broken nearly twenty hours of silence for this one girl, but there’s something that makes him think he trusted her once, which is strange to him. The Soldier does not remember trusting anyone. “You would be wise to,” he tells her. “I can hurt you.”

 

When he speaks, Jemma suddenly becomes aware of how much she missed his voice. It’s exhausted and low, but at least she made him talk and her achievement will be one hundred percent appreciated by those who couldn’t even sit as close to him as she does. It doesn’t mean that other agents had failed; it means that The Widow has her own tactics. She was raised by Hydra, just like him, even though he doesn’t recognize her. Yet.

When The Soldier mentions his name, Jemma looks down at the folder in her hands and sighs. They never told her his name when she was a young girl, calling him simply “The Soldier”. Hydra believed it sounded fearful enough for people to be scared of the man.  After all, he was scary indeed. Sometime later Black Widow had heard him called “the Winter Soldier” which she found ridiculous. It was just another attempt to make him look terrifying, even making up a legend Jemma heard after she escaped the Red Room but she never knew his real name until now.

“Believe me or not, but I do know your name”, she replied after a few minutes of complete silence. She fiddled with the folder on her lap and returned her attention to The Soldier. “The question is, do  _ you  _ want to know your name? I assume it’s been bothering you for a while now, isn’t?”

Playing with The Soldier would be a suicide, but in this case he wasn’t the fire. He was ice, cold and ruthless; he mercies no one who stands in his way, and once you see The Winter Soldier in action, you’ll never forget that. The Widow, on the other hand, is fire. Her rage is as bright as the flame, so that’s why she needs ice to cool down in order not to cause too much damage.

When he asks if they’re going to kill him, Jemma freezes and her hand itches to grab the gun on her hip. She rushes to remind herself that this is not  _ Hydra. _ This is  _ Shield _ and here, this is not how they deal with people like them. They have exceptions, of course, and it took years for Jemma to realize that they are not going to cross her off and sleep more or less peacefully.

The Widow looks away from The Soldier’s blue eyes and looks up to check the little camera in the right corner of the vault. She purses her lips and shakes her head, returning her attention to the man in front of her. “No. We won’t. This isn’t how we work. We captured you for a reason, not because you violated a thousands of laws and got away with murders.”

For a brief moment Jemma wonders if he remembers his mission where he almost killed her. Her bullet wound burns from time to time, but she doubts he had any clue who he had shot. Even now, he makes sure to mention that he can hurt her and it makes Jemma laugh.

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would already do that. And yet, you are the one who’s sitting in this chair”, young woman gestures at him. “And you’d rather not underestimate me. I’m capable of more than you think.”

Jemma hopes this will make him remember his tutoring, because eventually all of his lessons had paid off. At the end of her being in the Red Room she could easily instill terror in those who once underestimated her. Now they are buried deep under the ground without being able to criticize the infamous Black Widow. It would be nice to remember their trainings, Jemma thinks, but she’d rather not to challenge The Soldier and his wrath.

“Let’s get back to our talk”, The Widow crosses her legs and looks away from his metal arm. She doesn’t really know why Shield got him, perhaps they needed more people for their Avengers Initiative but is he the right candidate? Or is it because of their war with Hydra? “I know how much memories hurt, believe me. And I… we don’t want to show you our worst, so we expect you to come forward and cooperate with us.”

From her own experience, Jemma knows that it’s better to choose the second option. Her feisty behavior didn’t bring her any good in the past, and she prays to whoever that her Soldier will make a good choice. “Let’s start with a simple question. What were you doing in Bucharest? You could go anywhere… why did you choose Romania?”

She always thought that if they manage to escape the Red Room together, they could go back to England or Scotland. It would be logical, to come back where they both belong. And yet she understands why he was hiding somewhere where he’s least expected to be. It took them years to track him, for he’s too smart and knows how to become a ghost.

She wants to repress her desire to know what have he been up to, what made him run and did he even know if she was still alive. Yes, she tried to find him, but did he actually want to be found? She wants to ask him so many questions but he never was particularly a talker. He speaking not with words, but with his actions.

Shifting on her chair, Jemma tilts her head, listening to him as he speaks. She almost asks him if he remembers her, but The Widow doesn’t know if she really wants to know the answer. It’s been so many years, so there’s no chance he could remember his Widow. And yet, Jemma opens her mouth and slowly moves forward, her hand itching to take his in hers. “When you sleep, do you have dreams? Nightmares? Do you remember why are you having them in the first place?”

She wants to know, right here and right now that their shared nightmares are still a part of their dark beings. This is not something they should be proud of, but she hopes that The Soldier can still see her, even if it’s just nightmares.

 

When the woman remarks about his name, The Soldier freezes. He is unsure of why this makes him stop, as though it means something to him. “The Soldier has no name,” he tells her quietly, meeting her eye as he says it. But in his head, it’s repeating over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer.

_ The Soldier has no name... The Soldier has no name...  The Soldier has no identity; The Soldier is nothing _ ...

He can’t help but feel like he wants to scream against it, but instead he burrows his head down, mentally stepping away from her penetrating gaze. It is so intense he feels it even when he isn’t looking at her, and that is both terrifying and anxiety-inducing. The woman looks at him like he has answers to unknown questions, like he holds a key to something extravagant, and her words reflect that - they do not want to kill him yet. 

But of course, The Soldier understands this. It would be foolishness to kill before getting answers out of him. He bites back a remark when she stands up for this place he’s in. He thinks someone has called it Shield, but they all mean the same to him in the grand scheme of things.

The woman challenges him to hurt her, even, which is the most startling thing about their exchange. She seems to know her worth, or at least trust that he will not hurt her. He is not sure why she holds this amount of trust for him, but the exchange alone leaves him feeling oddly at ease, like they are stepping back into a rhythm they’d once known. The Soldier briefly wonders if he could have known this woman once, or known someone like her and was just deflecting memories. The more he focuses, the sound of her voice, the gentle way her fingers trace along her skin when she tucks her hair behind her ear, it all resembles a fuzzy memory he cannot activate. He does not let it bother him.

Her necessity for cooperation still stings, because she is very thorough. He cannot imagine that she would ever be around someone like him, unless she was once Hydra. The Soldier tenses at that thought. She knows a lot about where they found him, and he wonders if they have found his secret compartment in that building. He was not stupid enough to leave it in the same room in which he’d slept on an old mattress, when he did sleep, but he imagines they did a thorough sweep of the location anyway.

He is more surprised when she questions the reason behind Romania. As though the location seems off the wall for someone like him.

He does not tell her that it was the first place in continents that he had not felt someone watching over his shoulder, not until recently.

“It’s quiet.” He tells her, shrugging the shoulder of his human arm. His other arm aches oddly. The Soldier assumes this is because of the exertion and the fact that it has not been able to move more than a few centimetres in hours.

When the woman brings up nightmares, he tenses again. The movement is so intensely brief, he manages to bury it quick. But she is keen, he supposes, he doubts much flies past her. The Soldier dreams often, which is why he doesn’t sleep as often. The nightmares are never clear, but they are not supposed to be. He does not remember much of what those men have done to him, but he knows the chair is only a step in the wrong direction, so he does not say anything.

For reasons he does not entirely understand, he holds some trust in this woman. He thinks it might be the sleep deprivation getting to him, making him think these things. Ignoring her question, he pushes his lips together in a fine line.

“You’re still young,” The Soldier says after a long moment of silence. This woman has an air of familiarity about her that makes him almost choke, but he manages to brush it off as valiantly as his fractured mind can. He starts thinking of how her smile reminds him of memories long forgotten and how her hair is shorter than he remembers and he doesn’t know once again where that has come from.

They do not know one another.

Shaking his head, The Solder presses his lips together. “You still believe that the world has something to offer to you. That people are inherently good.” The Soldier does not share this belief, but he does not mention that either.

Instead, he curls in on himself, dropping his gaze from here. Shield - Hydra. Wherever he is, they fear him. More than he fears them. They will likely put a bullet through his skull the moment he shows belligerence. That is fine. The Soldier welcomes death.

“These men know not of peace, but of war.” He tells her, thinking the phrase sounds familiar too, but he cannot fathom why. He knows the men are watching, observing his behaviour, testing his limits with her.

The Soldier closes his eyes tightly, trying to fight the restraints for a moment. The metal one on his arm perplexes him still and he cannot break it. He has never had this type of restraints before, and thinks that is the point. These people want him to stay out until they can decide what to do with him.

The Soldier slumps forward, his eyes still closed as he leans his chin on his chest. He has not slept for forty two hours. But he cannot sleep in containment. That is when they attack. Inhaling deeply, he smells the faint aroma of a perfume and it doesn’t match for some reason. He is not sure why, because he has never met this woman before.

Has he?

He searches his mind, but comes up blank. This is an intimidation tactic, he thinks. Or some form of brainwash. Attribute one thing to a memory and he might trust them enough to stop fighting. All the while, The Soldier lifts his head and opens his eyes to look at her once more. 

He is not sure why they sent her. She is the only woman who has stepped inside in the twenty hours he has been here. The only one that does not look at him like he is a bomb ready to go off.

Still, there is a glimpse of a memory, one where she is younger and closer to him somehow, barely a breath in between them and before he can stop his traitorous tongue, he tells her, “you smell different.”

Even though he says it, he is not sure why he might think that. Because they have not met before. He does not know her.

_ Then why does it seem like he does? _

The Soldier closes his eyes again, shaking his head furiously. His mind is making things up, he decides. Filling in blanks that should not be there. The Soldier is losing grip, he must remain in control.

“I would like to be alone now.” He says, staring down at his human hand, the one that is bound by a single metal cuff. The Soldier feels weak, and he attributes that to the lack of sleep. But he will not sleep until he feels it is safe to do so. These men want him unguarded to hurt him.

No one he has trusted yet has failed to not make him regret it. He does not doubt that this woman means well, and despite the growing trust he holds for her, he does not doubt too that she cannot control everything here. If these men want him dead, he will be. 

Trust is such a finnicky thing.

 

 

The Widow did not expect him to ask what’s his real name, but his words still stung at her heart, making Jemma clutch the folder she was holding. After the Widow was accepted by Shield, she could finally use the methods of searching she couldn’t even have dreamed of. But that, of course, didn’t make it any better; she learns that everything he wanted was to serve his country, to be a better man. Later she meets Captain America herself – an incredible woman and her lover’s friend and Barbara Morse tells her more than the Widow should know.

But it doesn’t change the way Jemma sees him; in fact, her feelings grow stronger for him, even after so many years of separation. She knows what Hydra’s capable of – they have forms of torture Shield never heard of; Hydra has  _ the chair _ where they brainwash their soldiers; some of them die during the process of aforementioned tortures; some of them manage to survive, like the man in front of Jemma. She admires his strength but even people like him tend to break, so when he says the Soldier has no name, something in his features changes and it breaks Widow’s cold heart.

Simmons knows what Shield expects from her. After all, she is the only one who made him talk. She is expected to be rough and strict, but the Widow doesn’t want to push the man in the chair. She knows he’ll tell her everything she wants, but it doesn’t have to be here and now. This is the difference between Shield and Hydra and the Widow respects Shield in this way – their methods of interrogation are slightly softer than Hydra’s. it’s all about patience and integrity rather than brute force and psychological abuse.

The Soldier talks in short sentences and Jemma can’t help but smile a little – this is how she remembers him; never a talker but always a listener and observer. His remark about her being young make Jemma uncomfortable – she might have a baby face but deep inside there’s an older, wiser woman waiting to strike whenever it’s necessary. At the back of her mind old memories make an appearance and Jemma wonders if he remembers his nickname for her.

“I gave too much for this world already”, she says quietly, watching the Soldier. “It’s time for it to pay and give it back to me.”

His next words wipe away any emotions from her face and she stares at him agape, not quite believing he is actually saying this. She clenches her fists and fights the urge to grab the gun on her hip, releasing a shuddered breath instead.

“You think I am the same little girl who tried to fight her way out”, she challenges him, her voice almost like a whisper. She expects him to look her in the eyes, but apparently the Soldier doesn’t want to meet her glare. “They took everything from me; my life, my identity, my…”

The Widow shuts her mouth shut, reminding herself that he’s most likely doesn’t remember her. The past they shared was erased from his memory, and reminding him that they used to be closer would be a mistake. He is in pain and Jemma doesn’t want this pain to increase.

As always, he’s right about those people. Shield, Hydra; they fight for the same thing, but with different methods. Involuntary Jemma thinks back to these days when she worked for KGB and for a moment she thought that nothing has changed, really. Shield is like another form of KGB; The Widow stuck in this loop, unable to escape it.

“You’ve been at war”, Jemma doesn’t know why she says it, but it seems appropriate to mention, so she just allows herself to share this part of his past. “You must know what it’s like to be controlled and yet you haven’t tried to escape. You must be tired of this fight.”

She’s walking on a thin ice here – something she wouldn’t have done as a little girl – but after a couple of minutes spending with him the Widow knows he’s not going to hurt her. In this weaken state, he’s nothing but a simple man who’s tired of all this weight on his shoulders.  For the first time in her life Jemma realizes that she’s tired. They have more things in common than he can imagine, even if he doesn’t remember that. She’d give anything to come back to where they first met – and convince him to run away; a reckless decision Jemma used to make when she was younger and now this idea seems insane. There’s no way they can go back or to start again.

Just when Jemma opens her mouth to ask him about the reason he was hiding in Bucharest, he says something what knocks her dead. It’s like being in his arms all over again, feeling protected and  _ loved. _ Jemma quickly buries these thoughts deep inside her brain and takes a deep shuddering breath.

His request is not a surprise, and unlike other agents, she prefers to leave. Gathering the folder on her lap, she stands up and bites her tongue to ask him if he remembers her  _ at all.  _ She doesn’t think he does.

Despite her better judgement, she allows herself to move even closer only to squat down and place her hand on his stubbled cheek. She feels him wincing but doesn’t move away. “I meant what I said. We are not going to kill you”, she tries to look in his eyes but he refuses to look up. With a sigh, Jemma softly caresses his cheek. “I’ll see what I can do”, she promises him before straightening up and leaving the vault only to find a small group of agents with their guns pointed at her.

“Seriously?” The Widow throws her hands up in the air, annoyance in her voice. “He poses no threat.”

“He is genetically enhanced by Hydra, meaning he  _ is  _ a threat”, an agent from behind says through gritted teeth.

“So am I”, the Widow steps forward, daring the agents to shot her. Her face-to-face conversation with Winter Soldier made her bolder – something what she learned from him and kept in mind after months of his tutoring. She could easily snap the man’s neck without too much effort but such behavior won’t be approved by those who once saved her. Fighting the urge to start a fight, Jemma opts against it; she doesn’t want problems here, at least not now.

Without further ado Jemma turned around, walking away furiously from people she didn’t really trust; seeing the Soldier again made her reconsider all her decisions. Not for the first time Simmons had doubts about her being in Shield – they should have killed her when they got her, no questions asked. Moreover, she would even thank them for this because living in hell is not a particularly fun thing to do. There is no place for a monster here – _ and that is what exactly she is  _ – and it’s a simple law of her own hell that every monster should have someone by their side. In her narrative, it was her Soldier; they could easily be monsters together, finding a little corner of heaven in their hell.

Dark halls of the underground base remind her of the Red Room – but with no operating rooms and the chair.

( _ She thinks they do have it, just in case. That would be very wise of them considering there’s a particularly dangerous assassin along with the highly trained ballerina with killer skills.) _

His voice still makes her shiver and if there’s one way to get rid of emotions, it’s allowing herself to work it off at the shooting range. She still got the gun Hunter gave her, and a disturbing thought crossing her mind to put a bullet right in her head –  _ she is not suicidal, thank you very much, but the feelings are too much _ – but when the Widow hears someone calling her name, she turns around to find Bobbi Morse jogging towards her way.

“Jemma! I’m sorry about all these agents, I tried to tell them, but…”

“It’s fine”, the Widow smiled with restrain, keeping the distance just in case.

She still can’t believe how she – a Black Widow – and Captain America herself managed to become such close friends. During her first few weeks Jemma was distant – and that was expected from her – but as soon as Barbara Morse appeared on Shield’s radar, they had to work together including Hawkeye. This is the most ridiculous trinity Shield ever had, but there weren’t other choices.

“I’ve heard everything”, Bobbi breaks the silence and Jemma looks up. The blonde woman smiles apologetically, making the Widow uncomfortable. She doesn’t need pity. “Do you think if he saw me, maybe he could…”

“I don’t think so”, Jemma doesn’t want to give Bobbi hope. Hope is something what should be given to children when they need it and they are adults who have to deal with cruel reality and accept it. Taking a few steps forward, the Widow shakes her head, her voice almost a whisper. “Hydra has more than one way to wipe your memories away. It’s a completely new level of brainwashing, and god knows what they have done to him to cause such memory loss. It’s just fragments of something we had, but not a whole picture. I’m not even sure he knows what he’s seeing or feeling.”

It hurts to see Bobbi being upset. Jemma would have lost her lover, but Bobbi watched her best friend  _ die _ . They’ve gone through so much together and the Widow feels sorry for this woman. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she squeezes it softly. “I know that my opinion doesn’t matter but maybe you could convince them to give him a rest. We won’t know anything until he sleeps and eats. Even I have been in better conditions, for god’s sake. And we are both equally lethal. Well… except he has a metal arm.”

Bobbi chuckles and puts her hands on her hips, mentally agreeing with Simmons. “I’ll see what I can do but… don’t do anything stupid, Simmons. We wouldn’t want to lose our best asset. You are the one Fitz broke the silence for”.

Furrowing her eyebrows, the Widow glances at the gun on her hip and shrugs. As she watches Captain leave, the flashes of her past running through her head. She knew him as a Soldier; no name, no surname, no identity. In her eyes he was a perfect tutor, an outstanding assassin. For a brief second she wonders if Bobbi remembers him as Fitz; a good man and loyal friend, ready to fight side by side with Captain America for freedom.

Perhaps, this is the freedom they got in the end. The freedom they,  _ monsters _ , deserve. Eventually, they are together anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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